


after the end, before the beginning

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Urban Fantasy, F/M, Grant Ward-centric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-16
Updated: 2015-12-28
Packaged: 2018-05-07 01:09:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5437844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Universe ends. Death survives. </p><p>Sort of. Can a thing called “death” really <i>survive</i>? They can’t <i>die</i>. That’d be like a snake eating its own tail. But survive? It’s not really in their nature, is it?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shineyma](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shineyma/gifts).



> This is shineyma's Christmas gift (and one of my 25 fics of Christmas) and is set in her [Mistress of Death 'verse](http://shineyma.tumblr.com/tagged/verse%3A-mistress-of-death/chrono) (sort of. You'll get it when you read it). You should DEFINITELY be up to date on that before reading on. It is an AU for the very very very distant future of that 'verse and I dipped my toe in without her permission (for the SURPRISE!) so she has 100% full permission to demand I take it down.
> 
> Also, I messed up one of the details of her 'verse but as I'm pretty sure it only appeared in headcanons she posted, it doesn't count enough for me to fix it. (That’s totally valid logic right there.)

Everything ends. Everything has its time. All things heading inexorably towards entropy. Death and taxes. Blah blah blah. Only, as it turns out, taxes do eventually end - not as soon as Death would have expected, but eventually there’s nothing left to be taxed.

The Universe ends.

Death survives. Sort of. Can a thing called “death” really _survive_? They can’t _die_. That’d be like a snake eating its own tail. But survive? It’s not really in their nature, is it?

And there _are_ more than one. When the shattered remains of the Universe That Was coalesce into the Universe That Is, Peaceful Death is shattered herself and becomes a race of immortals soon to be known as the Dark Elves. The Death of Rebirth, who claimed those who were to be reborn, disappears completely in the new formation. Privately, Violent Death thinks he might fulfill the promise of his name and become the New Death, but he has no way of knowing. Doesn’t matter. Violent Death doesn’t envy him. Here, Death isn’t a person. It’s a _thing_ , a constant like the New Time or the New Gravity. At least Peaceful Death still lives on - a single soul like a million scattered pieces of glass. (And not so peaceful anymore, but Violent Death doesn’t blame her the madness. He can’t exactly judge.)

As for Violent Death himself, he feels broken, like a piece of himself was lost in the non-Time between this Universe and the other, but that isn’t anything new. There’s a hole in him. If he thought he would lose it along with everything else, he was wrong. With no Time to heal the wound, it consumed his entire being, and now he feels as though all he is is the hole. An emptiness in a Universe that is otherwise full to bursting, and doomed to exist forever in it.

He hopes when this Universe ends, so will he, that the new laws of Death will destroy him along with everything else here. Then perhaps the aching will cease and he can be free.

Unfortunately, forever turns out to be insufferably long without a purpose. So Violent Death takes a page from Peaceful Death’s book and turns to what he does best. He finds for himself a nice corner of the Earth - because apparently they have one of those again, what are the odds? - and takes it. He’s always enjoyed a good war and it’s better still to be a part of it, one man among the hoard. (It is easier, in the chaotic horror of battle, to forget the pain and pretend he is only a man.)

But he doesn’t call himself a man. He uses a variation on his old name to instill fear in the hearts of Mankind. Death may be only a thing in this world, but it was once a person, and all the more terrible for it. They should remember that.

It works too well. There’s an advanced race from some other star vacationing or something on the next continent and when they hear about Death’s legend, they get spooked. They tear him apart until there’s nothing left but his soul and, when they can’t kill that, hurl him to the farthest corner of the Universe and lock the door behind him.

He swears Eternal Vengeance on their entire stinking species.

And he waits.

 

 

\----------

 

 

Apparently he left an impression on the people of Earth. There’s a cult or something still operating in his name and they send him sacrifices - some more willing than others - to wear like ill-fitting suits. It’s very considerate, really.

(He thinks she would hate it, hate him for being party to it. The first time he has the thought, a wave of his old Power rolls over this meager world, killing everything in its path.)

Far as he can tell from the memories he picks from the brains of his bodies, humanity is progressing much the same as before. It’s almost uncanny, really. And maybe that’s why it happens. When they send him four men to choose from, there’s one Death likes. Not to wear as his new face - though the face _does_ remind him of the one he wore once upon a time and that might have something to do with it too. The man is _good_. Good and noble and strong of heart. Death knew someone like that once and though this man is not very much like her, it’s enough to still his hand.

One of the men, Death takes for a body. Two more he kills. But this last, this Will Daniels, he is allowed to live for however long he is able on this barren world.

It is Death’s gift and one Mr. Daniels does not appreciate half as much as he should.

 

 

\----------

 

 

It has been millennia since Death heard a woman’s voice - his worshipers back on Earth send him only male bodies to inhabit and none of the lifeforms left clinging to life on this rock have moved beyond asexuality - so when he hears a woman’s scream, he wonders if perhaps he’s succumbed to the isolation-born insanity Will fears so often in himself.

For all that it’s an idle thought, it becomes genuine when he sees her. She’s crying, screaming at the sky for the sun to return.

Death uses his old tricks and hides behind curls of dust thrown in the air to come close enough to see her clearly. Perhaps he is misremembering. Perhaps he only sees this woman, the first he’s seen in so so long, as being like that one whose absence is a hollow in his very soul because she’s the first. 

The first time he saw her was much like this. She was lost and frightened, plunged directly in the field of a very violent battle via a spell gone wrong. With the same care and pride she showed then to correct her error and return home safely, she gathers herself and sets to conquering this world. _His_ world.

And she does it so _well_. She’s frail, only a mortal, but she rises to the occasion with a ferocity and strength that lifts his heart like nothing has in all the ages of this world.

Jemma. Reborn somehow from the ruins of the Old Universe. He doesn’t know what it means, has never heard of anything like it.

She _died_. He _felt her go_ and yet … here she is.

When her body will go no further and he can feel the New Death creeping up on her, he brings up a storm to hold it at bay. Exhausted, she lies down in the sand and he cannot help himself. She’s so weak, she won’t remember this, and he allows himself a few moments to examine her soul.

He and his Jemma were bonded - not as he would have liked, not wholly so as to save her from dying - but well enough that he knows the contours of her soul as he knows his own. He hunts this one for discrepancies, spots of darkness or wells of light that he doesn’t recognize. There are none. She is precisely the same.

She is his Jemma in every way that matters.

He leaves her within sight of a pool of water to consider what this means. Is she a punishment? The woman he loves, returned to life just to be hurled into his personal hell along with him? Is she meant to pay for the joy he took in performing his duty in the Universe That Was? Or for lashing out at the people of Earth in the Universe That Is?

Or is she a gift? A reward for the good work he did and a balm to sooth his loneliness? Did those who serve him somehow see her connection to him and send her here?

He doesn’t know and he doesn’t care. She’s here and that’s all he cares for. He _itches_ to be near her. He can explain his presence, his existence. He doesn’t know how, but there must be a way. She loved him once, after all.

When he returns to where he left her, he realizes his great mistake.

He forgot Will.

 

 

\----------

 

 

Will loves her. Of _course_ he loves her. Who would not love his Jemma? Will looks at her like she’s the sun he’s been missing all these years and maybe Death gets a little jealous. Maybe he digs a trench a mile deep in the ground to keep them from leaving. Maybe he brings up a storm unlike any he’s built before it when they try again. Maybe he kills the man he’d sworn to let live when he realizes that Jemma is gone from him again.

 

 

\----------

\----------

 

 

Grant’s always felt empty. For as long as he can remember. Even before Thomas disappeared. Even before the well. The emptiness has always been there.

The shrink at juvie told him that’s how everyone feels, but Grant doesn’t think that’s true. People can feel lost or like they’re missing something. They find themselves in organizations or fill the holes with other people. But Grant doesn’t feel like he _needs_ something; he feels like he isn’t a whole person.

He tries though. HYDRA’s a good fit. They let him do whatever he wants - so long as whatever he wants aligns with their goals, but Grant doesn’t see that changing. And John is everything Grant always wished he had at home. Sure, he’s tough on him, but Grant’s a delinquent, a fuck-up. He needs a strong hand. And it’s not like that’s all John gives him. He compliments him, _praises_ him. No one’s ever done that before.

Grant thinks between HYDRA and John, he might do okay.

 

 

\----------

 

 

He never feels whole.

When John dies, he tries to fill himself up with the team, but they hate him. He goes back to HYDRA, but they’re weak and led by petty men with small dreams. He clings tight to Kara and he- and she- It doesn’t work out.

No team. No Kara. No John. HYDRA’s still around though. Grant rebuilds it and when he’s on the verge of retaking everything, Malick lets him in on the big secret: HYDRA’s empty too. It’s missing its head - and Malick wants Grant to bring him back.

Frankly, it sounds like a _really_ bad idea, but there’s something deeply satisfying in the idea of making this organization whole again. Maybe, he thinks in the shadows of his mind, if he can make HYDRA whole, HYDRA will be able to make him whole. It’s an appealing thought.

He maybe lets it drive him a little over the edge.

 

 

\----------

 

 

“I’m sorry,” he says without knowing why. He hasn’t apologized to anyone since he was in that hold Coulson dumped him in, but the words spill out of him now. “I didn’t mean to-”

She meets his eyes steadily while some nobody grunt wraps the mess he left of her chest. “To hurt me?” she asks mockingly. It’s impressive - not just the cheek, but the fact that she can speak at all after all that screaming.

The return of her ferocity eases his guilt and his own mocking smile returns with no effort at all. He crouches down in front of her, stalling the grunt working on her.

“For it to go on that long.” He hisses in a breath. “Who knew it’d take Fitz that long to crack? And here I thought he really loved you.”

She glares at him with so much intensity that he doesn’t even think she notices when the grunt starts stitching up her arm.

He’ll feel bad for this later, for hurting her and mocking her, but it’s worth it to see this version of her one more time before he goes.

 

 

\----------

\----------

 

 

Death, being Death, has had a lot of surreal experiences, but meeting Grant Ward probably takes the cake. He may not have known the face as well as he knew Jemma’s but that is definitely _his_ face. And it’s been walking around Earth for the last thirty-some years? Without him?

And it’s _just_ the face. There’s no soul in there. A spirit, maybe. Just enough to keep the body running and give it the approximation of life, but it’s not a real person, only a shadow of one.

Which is good because when the chest is crushed and the body dies, there’s no soul to be ushered into the Afterlife. When Death settles into the body, he doesn’t just wear it; it becomes _his_. It fits him like a glove, wrapping around him just the way his own should and he fills up all the emptiness it felt without him.

Most of it. There’s still that Jemma-sized hole to be dealt with.

It’s his top priority when he settles into the seat beside Malick. They let Jemma slip through their fingers and he’s willing to forgive the screw up, so long as they can get her back.

After all, he has past mistakes to make up for. He’ll make amends for how abysmally he treated her when he was broken in two and she’ll forgive him. And this time, when he asks her to be his forever, he won’t be foolish enough to take no for an answer.

 


	2. (still) before the beginning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An anon on tumblr requested - well, requested anything at all, so I gave them Jemma's POV for what happens next.

She’s trying to be strong, to be brave, even while her insides are shaking and all she can think about are the wounds - still only half-healed and stiff - from her last time in HYDRA custody. She tries to use it to shore up her defenses. These people _hurt her_ and there’s enough indignation in that thought to build hate like a wall around her.

It crumbles to the ground when a dead man walks through the door.

She would follow it down, except he’s across the room in two quick strides and catches her before her guards can even move.

He’s _supposed to be dead_. Coulson said he killed him on the planet and he’d never lie to them about that.

Which means this isn’t Ward at all.

“You’re him,” she says, the words coming out far steadier than they should. That might be due to the warmth bleeding through her sleeves. He caught her at her elbows and hasn’t let her go - has, in fact, started up a loose pattern of strokes along the curve of her arms. It serves to wake up nerve endings that had gone painfully numb thanks to how her hands are tied.

He hasn’t taken his eyes off her, is completely ignoring Malick’s reciting of how she was “recovered.” She was targeted then. She was so hoping it was only bad luck that landed her in HYDRA’s hands, but if they wanted her - _again_ \- this promises to be a very painful stay.

He’s still watching her and there’s this little twist on his mouth she might call a smile if he were wearing anyone’s face but Ward’s.

“You’re the thing that killed Will,” she says, putting a little emphasis on _thing_ because, no matter the legends, she refuses to dignify this monster by describing him as human. “Aren’t you?”

His mouth flattens into a line and the progress of his hands on her arms halts, tightens to just this side of painful.

“Leave,” he says coldly, and though he has yet to remove his attention from her, his hold makes it clear he means everyone _but_ her.

The others shuffle out, Malick included, and when they’re gone, the monster from her nightmares finally releases her. He steps back and looks her over carefully from head to toe. The path back up takes twice as long and makes her squirm, wishing he’d get on with it already - whatever _it_ may be. The movement is cut short by a twinge from her back. One of the burns Ward left on her is at just the right spot to be bothered by her bra.

Concern wrinkles his brow and he reaches for her again. This time she backs away. He has the audacity to look  _hurt_.

“You’re in pain,” he says and stalks closer, corralling her up against a wall. “I’m sorry I hurt you,” he says into the scant space he leaves between them.

“ _You_ didn’t do this to me,” she corrects coldly. “Ward did. You’re just wearing his face.” She looks determinedly over his shoulder. “The things you did to me aren’t physical.”

She shudders as his fingers brush her hair from her forehead - and then gasps and falls into his arms. The pain that’s been so constant she only feels it anymore when it flares up is suddenly gone. Vanished. She didn’t know how wound up she was fighting to keep steady on her feet until there was nothing to hold off and now she’s weak and filling her lungs properly for the first time since Ward started in on her.

He’s solid beneath her, not at all cold the way a walking corpse should be. When his forehead brushes her temple in what can only be described as an affectionate nuzzling, it sends a bolt of something hot to her core and she stiffens in his arms.

“The rules are different here,” he says serenely, “but I can still do that much for you.”

She pushes away, preferring the wall to him. He lets her go but his hands linger longer than they should on her hips and waist. She can feel his touch burning her long after it’s gone.

“You expect me to believe you ever did _anything_ for me?” she asks. He’s as delusional as Ward was in the Vault if he thinks that. “You terrorized me. You nearly killed me. You _murdered_  the man I _loved_.” The rest, that he stole Will’s body and wore it like a suit, refuses to be said.

She knows she’s hurt Fitz with the way she’s kept her distance the last few days, but she truly is thankful to him for destroying Will’s body. She can’t imagine how much more this would hurt if it was his face she was looking into and seeing a monster. At least Ward, she long ago learned to see as one.

A chill look that fills her with a primal sort of fear has come over him, but he pushes it resolutely away to smile indulgently, like she’s a child who’s spoken out of turn. “I used to do a lot of things for you, a long time ago - before the stars were born.”

That … is the most patently absurd thing Jemma has ever heard and she has no idea how to even _begin_ to respond to it.

He brushes her hair over her shoulder, his fingers lingering on the exposed skin of her neck, and it strikes her that he’s finding excuses to touch her. It should make her skin crawl but there must be some traitorous part of her that still remembers the way she thrilled whenever Ward would cover her from attack or check her over swiftly for signs of injury. That attraction, though childish and, ultimately, incredibly misplaced, was understandable; to be attracted to this _thing_ wearing his face would be unforgivable.

“I know I’ve scared you in the past,” he says gently, “but you’ll understand. You’ll love me again. You just need time - and I’ll make sure you get it.”

For all that he is clearly quite mad, she truly believes that last promise is one he’s more than capable of delivering on.

 


End file.
